


Grab the Wall

by dunked_delirious



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Bara Pet Rock, Big Sans, Biting, Bratting, Casual Sex, Dirty Talk, Dom Sans, Dom/sub, Ecto-Penis (Undertale), Ecto-Tongue (Undertale), Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, One Night Stands, Other, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with minimal Plot, Reader has a vagina, Reader has no defined gender, Rough Sex, Safewords, Sexual Antagonism wasn't a tag but it is now, Size Difference, Size Kink, Smut, Social blunders, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, all this position switching leaves reader a certified pancake, clubs, g spot ex machina, homebrew shitty jokes, in my defense exposition and aftermath are included in the deal, mild pain play, previously on 'du_De can't write fics with normal word counts', ribbed for yr pleasure, you know me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23207605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dunked_delirious/pseuds/dunked_delirious
Summary: “Can I ask you a personal question, Sans?”Your voice hangs in the air, just barely cutting through the clamor, and that grin turnsknowing. “lay it on me, doll.”You human up and lean in close, enough to smell the cardamom on his breath; to make out the singular scuffs in the tarnished metal on his collar. “Got any use in those chompers, or are they just for show?”You feel well past the point of turning, too jittery and high on adrenaline, but your body can still spare a stab of sweetish fear when Sans’s grin turns downright devious. Your thoughts are scarce and you can’t in good faith tell what you thought your feint would net you—but it sure as hell wasn’t the tapered, glowing, decidedly inhumanthingthat flicks across his teeth. “lemme at that pretty neck of yers, an’ you’ll find out.”Filthy smut featuring Underfell Sans. Reader has a vagina, no gendered names or pronouns are used. Optional precursor to theBottoms Upseries!
Relationships: Sans/Reader
Comments: 31
Kudos: 306





	1. Grab the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> whew, this one's long overdue! 
> 
> i've been meaning to write a proper dom!Sans for some time, and the fabled first time i kept referring to in the BU series seemed a perfect opportunity to inflict my 11K word curse. i hoped to get this out a lot sooner, but my health took a hike in late november and i kinda haven't heard from her since. i've somehow burned out thrice over the course of working on this thing and it really _could_ be better, but sometimes you just have to leave good enough alone. 
> 
> but fuck that, have another two-parter. both chapters contain sin. all pretty tame as far as warnings go, but i’ve dropped some extras in the end notes for those who like to have the full allergy list on hand. 
> 
> please enjoy, my starlings! <3

_Fuck it, it’s ride or die.  
  
  
_ The echo of your laconic self-pep sesh melts faster than the ice in your glass, washed out by the bass reverb that thrums in your chest like a second heartbeat. Your head feels like sludge, thoughts fragmented to snippets and lost to the noise. The worry from before is gnawing at the edges and you oust it with utmost vehemence, firmly reminding yourself of the promise to drop your doubts at the door.  
  
The place is packed to bursting, teeming with monsters and humans hell-bent on having a good time. It’s hard to tell who’s who in the flickering blacklights. The most you can make out is the colorful armbands, phosphorescent beacons to broadcast each guest’s intentions for the evening. Yellow for swingers, blue for those who are taken or just here to jam out to their own tune. Purple for the staff, who are per default off-limits. Red for monsters who want monsters only.  
  
There is a lot of red around tonight.  
  
You twirl your glass between your fingers, swirling your straw around the foam left at the bottom. The straws, too, are glow-in-the-dark: the one the bartender handed you was orange, picked to match the band around your wrist. _“Looking for playmates”_. There are far fewer of them around than the red ones, and while it does have you feeling a wee bit like a square peg in a round hole, you understand. Monsters have cause to be wary of humans. Club Jinx welcomes everyone, but it’s a monster safe space, first and foremost. The last thing you want is to encroach.  
  
You lap up the last dregs of drink on your straw and flick a wistful glance towards the behemoth-issue bar downstairs. It had taken exactly one swig of _HotSwirl_ to sell you in on the wonders of monster mixology. Whatever had been mixed into the creamy concoction had held the sweet tang of pine resin and left a pleasant tingle down your throat. Absent-mindedly, you ponder if the purple tinge to it was a personal spin by the elemental monster who had served it to you.  
  
Too bad heading downstairs for seconds meant kissing your hard-won seat goodbye. Nature abhors a vacuum, and you’ve been spying all kinds of contenders vying for your spot on the overlook.  
  
Your sweet tooth seals the deal in the end, backed in spades by a hunch that staying cooped upstairs won’t be getting you laid anytime soon. You spare no backward glance for whoever winds up usurping your seat as you scurry down the spiral stairs, clinging to the rail as not to lose your footing in the strobe lights. The space around the bar is more crowded than the dance floor, the draw of drinks ostensibly outshining that of any stage fright. The night is still young you suppose, better sit tight and wait for the thirsty throngs converging on the bartender like moths to the proverbial flame to drink themselves brave for the dance-off.  
  
Then again, after sampling the Swirl, you can’t in good faith say you won’t rank among them.  
  
The beat changes, and you take it as your cue to do your best impression of a two-dimensional plane to squeeze past a pair of exceptionally beefy monsters with yellow armbands. They’re so huge you could’ve easily mistaken them for bouncers on the QT, stealing a moment’s merriment amidst the sea of people. Thinking of which, are fraternizing co-workers even an issue by monster standards? They seem to be all about the battle-couple gig, what’s to say they don’t take after the ancient Thebes?  
  
You’re so lost in contemplation of what is literally none of your business that the world itself deigns to extend you a hand—or a foot, since you’re pretty sure it’s one of those that trips you. Your distressed squawk is lost to the monolith of noise and music as you desperately flail around for footing, and the only speck of coherence in your head is how mortifying it would be to break your empty glass.  
  
Strong fingers clamp around your arm a split second before you kiss the floor. The crowd around you parts just enough to give you elbow-room to whip around and face your savior.  
  
You’re met with a single red eye peering through a wild mane of even redder hair. Flickering lights of green and blue bounce off a swath of gleaming scales, matched by a beaming smile that only widens at your stupefied expression. “Watch it, punk. This is no place to die.”  
  
You’re still stuttering through a thanks when your hero takes her leave, seeing you off with a hearty clap on the back that knocks the wind from your lungs. She disappears into the crowd of monsters, the attention of some dozen red eyes turning to you—some glinting with amusement, and none with disdain. You still feel the blood welling to your cheeks as you hitch your wagon to your savior’s star, mumbling apologies as you weave through the gaps left in her tow.  
  
By the time you’ve wrangled your way to the far wall, the doomsday clock in your brain is no longer chanting death, and the fog of irrational embarrassment subsides enough for you to glimpse a smidge of humor. That’s one way of putting yourself out there. You have to stave off a sting of disappointment in yourself for not catching the bracelet status of your savior. A once-in-a-lifetime setup for a “falling for you” line, recklessly wasted.  
  
 _“knock knock.”_  
  
The crisp-cut clarity of the voice from behind you nearly has you dropping your glass for the second time in an hour. You whip around to face its source, and find yourself face-to-face with the second set of razor teeth for the night—only this time, the red-hot coals that meet your gaze are set in the deep voids of empty sockets. The monster they belong to is one you can only describe as a chubby Skeletor on steroids. The plenitude of spikes studding his jacket would put Ghost Rider to shame. Dangling off the heavy buckle on his collar is a strip of luminous orange.  
  
The static in your brain leaves no room for embarrassment at the time it takes to find your voice. “Who’s there?”  
  
“arya.” His voice is a sonorous rumble, surprisingly resounding against the deep reverb of music.   
  
“Arya who?”  
  
His teeth part ever-so-slightly, their sharpness brought to light as that grin stretches impossibly wider. For a hot second, you think you glimpse a glint of metal in his mouth. “ _arya_ open to advances, or do i see myself out?”  
  
You feel the echo of his grin where it spreads across your face. You’re starting to like him already.  
  
“Could see yourself out of those clothes, big boy,” you mumble under your breath, a stray thought that never should have made it past the gutter, much less out your mouth. Realization strikes a moment too late when you see his brows shoot up in disbelief, and your hands fly to clamp over your mouth, cold fear lancing through your body like a spear of sucking void. “ _OhmyfuckingshitI’msosorrywhatthefuckiswrongwithme—_ ”  
  
The seething deadlock of your thoughts lends itself to a vivid largesse of punishing scenarios, and the world’s failure to follow through with any of them only pulls the knot tighter. It takes a solid three seconds for you to realize the rumbling roar in your periphery isn’t the ground opening up to swallow you whole, but the monster you’d just accosted cackling like the goddamned wicked witch of the West.  
  
“welp, ‘least we know our minds are runnin’ the same gutters.” The drawl of his voice punches a hole right through your horrified haze. Mortified, you peek through your fingers. Did you really hear that right?  
  
You don’t really get the chance to ask before he leans in, and this time, you clearly catch the light bouncing off the metal hull of his canine. Cool breath gusts across your cheek when he speaks, carrying the sweetly-tart of Swirl fringed with a hint of cardamom. “so tell me, doll, are you a switch? ‘cause yer _turnin’_ me _on_ alright.”  
  
You are certain you’re the epitome of sultry and sexy as you choke on your spit, fighting the urge to cover your face with your hands while you cough. If your cheeks get any hotter, they might just set off the fire alarms.  
  
“Well, if you’re turned on by social faux pas, you’ve _come_ to the right person,” you croak, finally dredging up the will to peer up at your companion. In good time, too, because you’d swear that smile packs more lumen than the whole damn venue.  
  
“now that’s the fuckin’ spirit.” His sockets narrow, and you’re not afforded time to linger on the sudden swath of heat across your skin before he’s holding out his hand. “name’s sans. sans the skeleton. might wanna remember that, for later.”  
  
You blink slowly, eyeing him up and down. “Could’ve fooled me.”  
  
His chuckle is a raw, rich thing of a sound, and you wonder whether you have that to blame for the goosebumps prickling at your nape, or the fact your eyes have finally landed on his fingers. Stars stand for your mercy, he has fucking _claws_.  
  
You don’t let your impromptu stocktake of your kinks deter you from extending a hand of your own. If any of the corner cams are thermal, you’re sure to be mistaken for the Human Torch. “Can I buy you a drink, Sans?”  
  
Might be the strobelights playing tricks on you, but you could swear you saw his eyelights brighten. “sure, if you let me buy you a bowl of nachos.”  
  
“They have nachos here?!” You wrack your brain for any memory of seeing people with food, but all you remember is the glaring bracelet soup of neons.  
  
“ya bet.” He casts a furtive glance around, grin widening before he adds, in a conspiratorial whisper, “it’s _nacho_ shitty human pubs.”  
  
It takes a twinkling for his words to land, something you’re all too happy to pin on the poor cogs in your brain having a field day. In retrospect, you suppose all systems have to depressurize, because that is the sole explanation you have for the hysterical sob-laugh that slips from your mouth without permission. Any self-consciousness you might’ve felt is voided by sheer virtue of your de facto hot date being too busy cackling at his own joke.  
  
“Yeah, okay. I’m in,” you croak when your voice is back in commission.  
  
Sans’s jaws snap shut with a vicious clack, and you make a note for posterity to have a good, hard look at the trepidatious thrill that rockets down your spine.  
  
“grand, thanks fer treating me.” Before you can open your mouth, he turns on his heel and sets off at a brisk clip. It is by sheer survival instinct that you have the sense to follow, filing in behind him and keeping as close as you can without instigating physical contact. The last thing you want is an encore of your poor stab at crowd surfing, but there’s hardly any need—Sans ploughs ahead like a fucking icebreaker. For all the way he cruises through the crowds, there is enough berth to his strides to give your poor human legs a workout.  
  
By the time you emerge at the bar, Sans is already rattling off an order to the flame monster you’d ordered your drink from earlier. You don’t quite catch their exchange through the clamor, but you see the bartender’s face scrunch up like he’d bitten into a lemon before he takes his leave. Sidling up to Sans, you’re already opening your mouth to thank him for the off-the-cuff cardio when he turns to face you with a grin, and the light bouncing off that razor-sharp canine has your mind swarming with prospective endgames to this night that’d be a damn sight more strenuous.  
  
The clink of the Swirl glass being set in front of you seems like a stars-sent mercy upon your suddenly parched throat.  
  
“cheers, matchy, yer the best.”  
  
Already nursing your drink, you look up in the nick of time to catch the bartender sign something in MSL that you’re not quite savvy enough to parse, but fluent enough to decipher as a daisy chain of profanity. Curious, you slant a glance at Sans, only for your attention to be snapped up by the cheesy goodness piled upon the plate he dangles just out of your reach.  
  
“Give me those.” You reach for the nachos, only to have them snatched away with a pesky snicker.  
  
“easy, dollface. let’s take this picnic somewhere cozy, yeah?”  
  
The pet name makes your stomach flutter, but you’re not about to let him pick up on any tells. Pressing your lips together, you fire off a stink-eye for good measure before grudgingly nodding your assent. The glint in his eyes is inscrutable, and you refuse to spare any of your hard-won brain cells for the thoughtful hum he lets out before setting off across the floor, leaving you pouting at the decal on his back as you plug along in tow.  
  
This time when the sea of people parts before you, you’re surprised to find he’s led you to the booths. Tucked away in the shadow of the loft and set apart with meshwork dividers, yeah, they made the cozy cut alright, but they’re as jam-packed with people as they had been over the hour you’d spent scoping the place. This time, you can only assume the stars themselves must smile upon you and your bumbling pursuits of fornication, because you spot a couple rising from their seats not long after you arrive. The flickering lights above cast the nook in strobing neons, which you hold accountable for the second it takes you to make out the gleaming scales and unruly tresses of your heroine. Her arms are slung around the shoulders of a shorter monster, obscured from view beyond the tease of glossy latex and a scaly hand tangled in your savior’s hair. This time, there is nothing to hog your attention from the bright blue bands coiled around their wrists.  
  
Sans makes a beeline for the booth, motioning for you to follow, and on the off-chance that he didn’t witness you being a klutz earlier, you regretfully elect to let your run-in with your scaled savior go unmentioned. You genuinely hope the both of them have a fantabulous night.  
  
“so,” Sans begins once you’re both seated, reaching over to dip a nacho in the cup of complementary sauce, “first time at jinx?”  
  
You narrow your eyes. “Is it that obvious?”  
  
Sans offers a half-hearted shrug. “eh, lucky guess.” He grabs another fistful of nachos, hogging the entire ramekin of what you realize now is mustard. Dawdling yourself out of a snack seems like an awful turnover, and you scoot closer to the bowl to follow suit, flusteredly aware of how it all but has you huddled up shoulder-to-shoulder. “how’d ya like it so far?”  
  
You pensively chew on your chips, sweeping your gaze around the room as you struggle to find your words. “It’s a lot,” you confess at last. In what’s shaping up to be quite the unfortunate theme for the night, you catch on a moment too late to how that must’ve sounded and you’re already opening your mouth to clarify, but all Sans gives you is a knowing nod.  
  
“yeah, no bones about it. used t’ barely get enough to fill the bar stools, now every damn thursday’s like sardines in a barrel.”  
  
“What happened?” you enquire between mouthfuls. Now that your nerves have settled down a smidge, you can finally sit down and try to wrap your mind around his accent. The way he drawls his words makes you think of New York. Brooklyn? It’s utterly obnoxious.  
  
 _ ~~You love it.~~_  
  
“open nights happened. place used to be members only, ‘cept that didn’t pay the rent. got lantern boy back there turning twenty shades of pissed, so a bunch of us pitched the open jig. keeps the place from breaking bank, and throws out a line fer new members. no one was expecting a damn stampede, can tell ya that much.”  
  
“Can humans become members?” A bit bold considering you might not ever show your face here again, but the Swirls tacked on to the sheer amounts of eye-candy have you sorely tempted. Your cognitive functions aren’t faring too well under that lazy, razor smile, and you reach inside your pocket before you forget, fishing out the coins you owe him and sliding them across the table.  
  
“now that’s the tricky part.” He pockets the gold without ever taking his eyelights off you. “ya need a couple vouchers. friends or hookups on the inside, someone to attest that yer a good egg. ‘s a bit of a hurdle, but we’ve had issues before, and a coupla open nights will get ya the connections no problem. heard some talk ‘bout hosting open events, but i’ll tell ya up front that ain’t gonna fly with security.”  
  
You hum thoughtfully, fighting off the smirk that tugs at your lips when your gaze lands unbidden on his collar. “I take it you’re a regular, then?”  
  
Sans grins, “something like that.”  
  
There’s a sly edge to that sneer, and his phrasing screams omission, but somehow all that gets through to you is the way his voice dips, and the rhythmic tap-a-tap of claws against his long-drained glass that has you wondering absently at what other, devious things those hands could do. Overhead, the music climbs to a crescendo, falls in line with the frenzied beating of your heart, and it’s easy, all cheap artifice to hold the Swirls accountable for the heady warmth that fills your mouth, liquid courage that has you leaning forward, a coy glance towards that knife-sharp grin to precede your words. “Can I ask you a personal question, Sans?”  
  
Your voice hangs in the air, just barely cutting through the clamor, and that grin turns _knowing_. “lay it on me, doll.”  
  
You human up and lean in close, enough to smell the cardamom on his breath; to make out the singular scuffs in the tarnished metal on his collar. “Got any use in those chompers, or are they just for show?”  
  
You feel well past the point of turning, too jittery and halfway out of your gourd on adrenaline, but your body can still spare a stab of sweetish fear when Sans’s grin turns downright _devious_. Your thoughts are scarce and you can’t in good faith tell what you thought your feint would net you—but it sure as hell wasn’t the tapered, glowing, decidedly inhuman _thing_ that flicks across his teeth. “lemme at that pretty neck of yers, an’ you’ll find out.”  
  
No amount of stars-sent sangfroid could’ve stopped the full-body shudder that goes through you. From the way Sans’s sockets slit, you _know_ he’s noticed.  
  
The air in the booth prickles hotly at your skin, all sweltering stale with no words to slice through it. You know your face is glowing brighter than your bracelet and still there is no waver to your voice, only the same steeled surety that backs your every word as you say, “You wanna take this somewhere less crowded?”  
  
Sans’s eyes lock onto yours with scalding intensity, and you can parse a dozen filthy proffers from that gaze. “lead the way, doll.”  
  


* * *

  
You’ve barely made it out the door before your mouth is on his, hard hands twisting in the tangle of your jacket as you’re corralled up the nearest wall. His fervor finds a match in you, in fingers that fumble over bone and leather with greedy desperation; impulse takes the wheel when cold bricks press into your back and your lips part in a gasp, welcoming the onslaught of that otherworldly tongue. His kiss is everything you had expected and more, the brush of bone and metal on your skin as bizarre as it’s intoxicating, and the curl of that outlandish tongue against yours is unlike anything you’ve felt before.  
  
A breathy growl reverberates through Sans’s chest, low and primal, and you can’t hold back a whimper when his teeth snag on your bottom lip.  
  
“how’re you with biting?” he asks, and the thought alone spurs a pulse of desperate need between your legs.  
  
“Don’t puncture my carotid, and we’re good.” You yank him back in by the collar, starved too soon for the tart-spiced sweetness of his mouth, of cloves and cardamom fringed with the faintest trace of mustard. Sans does you one better; pulls you closer with a grip tight enough for those claws to be a dangerous portent, twitching with your heedless gasp when you feel his grin press flush against your neck.  
  
“don’t ya worry, doll. not the kinda thing i have in mind, even if yer all up here lookin’ like a snack—” He inhales deeply, breathing you in, and you feel a second layer of blush creep up your cheeks, “—and ya damn well smell like one, too.”  
  
Between your surely worn-off body lotion and how het up you’ve been for the past hour, you’re not entirely sure you’d agree, but different folks, different strokes, and you’ve never felt this bent on getting to the strokin’. Sans seems to be of a similar mind; his grip on your waist tightens by a fraction, and then you’re the one choking out a breath as sharp teeth sink into your skin without preamble.  
  
“ _Shit,_ fuck..!” Your eloquent tirade is promptly derailed by a sinuous swipe of tongue, and ebbs out into hapless groans when Sans pulls away, chuckling lowly.  
  
“yer a special kind a’ freak, aren’tcha?”  
  
The glare you send his way is a matter of formality. “Shut the fuck up and kiss me.”  
  
The fire in those red-hot eyes leaps higher just before he grants your wish, teeth colliding with your lips hard enough to bruise. His hands slip down your sides and stall, hesitating, and it is you who guides them lower, all your testiness lost in Sans’s gravelly moan as he gives your assets a squeeze. “fuckin’ hell, ya humans are so _soft_ …”  
  
“You’re the one who’s hard!” You jab a finger at his bony chest for emphasis.  
  
The inauspicious chortle against your lips might’ve been grueling, had you not been so haplessly horny.  
  
“welp, yer not wrong ‘bout that.” His hand finds yours, guides it lower, and you may never forgive yourself for the egregiously unsexy sound you make when your fingers smooth over something unforeseen but oh-so-welcome.  
  
“Holy fucking mothballs,” you mumble under your breath, even as you kick yourself for your bafflement because _for fuck’s sake, he can whip up a tongue with his magic, why the fuck wouldn’t he have a dick?_  
  
A soft rattle breaks you from your trance. Sans’s breath hitches when your fingers skim his clothed length, cutting-edge grin softening to a sickle. Not a small boy, not by a long shot and you can only imagine what it’ll feel like to take him, your cunt clenching on nothingness in concert with your wayward thoughts.  
  
“c’mere,” Sans growls. It isn’t an offer so much as a warning, and still sees you yelping out a distraught squawk as you’re unceremoniously— _effortlessly_ —hauled up the spackled wall. No time to play coy before his mouth is back with a vengeance, and that takes the bite out of your middling protests, leaves you clinging to his shoulders as your legs are hoisted higher, held aloft by strong, thick arms. The strain in your thighs from merely staying astride him calls to question the logistics of what is yet to come, and you tremble at the thought, garnering leverage off the wall as you roll your hips against that glorious hardness.  
  
Sans’s growl catches when you reach between you to wrestle with the zipper on your pants. The position is awkward and your angle leaves much to be desired; a moment or two of honest but ultimately fruitless efforts sees you forfeiting with a groan, only to perk up at a sound you can only liken to the sheathing of a switchblade. “No way! You’re like a fucking cat!”  
  
The monster beneath you cracks an impish grin, wagging his amiably blunted fingers. “that shorthand fer callin’ me a pussy? ‘cause ya know what they say.” He leans in, hands skirting the hem of your pants. “you are whatcha eat.”  
  
Between his hand and that travesty of a pickup line, the fact that your deadpan stare holds is a bona fide miracle. “Clearly a cheese market somewhere is missing its stock.”  
  
You don’t quite catch the point of contact, but something in your wham line is a whetstone to that smile.  
  
“nah, nah. ‘cause ya see…” His teeth hover at your pulse point, make you tremble with yearning for that delicious danger. “…had a hunch i’d be eating out t’night.”  
  
“I can’t even begin to explain how much I cannot let you do that.” Yeah, like your mind isn’t a fevered slideshow of the dirty, dirty things he could do to you with that tongue. Not that he seems like he’d hurt you on purpose, you don’t think, just— “I’m not too _keen_ on letting sharp stuff near my junk, you know?”  
  
Sans chuckles, and the warmth in his voice melts the last of your worries. “that’s fair enough, sweetheart. if ya change yer mind, the offer stands.”  
  
The cursed zipper parts at last, and whatever you’re about to say next chokes off on a whimper when Sans’s teeth press down again, tongue flicking teasingly over the smarting bite he left before. Firm fingers brush your flushed skin before finally, _finally_ dipping beneath your waistband, and the growl in Sans’s voice turns _feral_. “now that’s just fuckin’ _feisty_.”  
  
Spurred by sudden courage, you tilt your head with a smirk, dropping a hand to your hip to deliberately trace your glaring lack of underwear. “I like feisty.”  
  
This time, there are no lights to mask the flare of crimson in his socket. “bet you fuckin’ do.”  
  
Whatever goads might have ripened on your tongue cut short on a startled wheeze when your shorts are yanked down to your knees. The air that steals across your cunt is chilly, but Sans’s hands are not, and you can’t in good faith say which one it is that has you shivering.  
  
“ _fuck._ ” His breath gusts across your parted lips. You’ve every mind to second that statement, but all that escapes is a piteous whimper when he curls his fingers, slicking them against your folds. “all this from a coupla bites, huh?”  
  
He might still see your smirk from where he’s gazing down between you, his forehead flush with yours. You’ll take your chances. “Plenty ways to get me going, bone boy. Gotta catch ‘em all.”  
  
The flash of challenge in that grin is every bit of what you wanted. “yeah? guess i better start buildin’ my _hand_ book.”  
  
You would’ve told him what you think about that joke, if it weren’t for him slipping two fingers inside you for the punchline. Thick, ruinously thick and so much firmer than a human’s, sliding inside you with well-slicked ease. His breath is searing hot against your lips and so is the deep carmine of those eyelights, gleaming with unblushing glee when you swear loudly at the thumb that flicks your clit. “Piece of shit.”  
  
Sans shrugs, not taking his eyes off your pussy. “eh, i get that a lot.”  
  
 _‘Can’t imagine why’_ is on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t get a chance to voice it before those fingers twist inside you with devious purpose, and speaking seems like an awful waste of breath. Your own flounder fretfully in search of an anchor, settling for his collar, and you’re past putting a meaning to the shudder in his breath as you yank him closer, urging his jaws to part for your tongue to make an entry.  
  
“yer so fuckin’ _soft_ ,” he groans, _groans,_ against your mouth, “so hot an’ wet an’ tight around my fingers…”  
  
His tirade trails off on a growl when you flex your walls around him, squirming, a frantic, feverish plea for _more_ —  
  
“Sans, please,” you rasp, heedless of how desperate you sound.  
  
“what do you want?” Sans asks gruffly. Like you can even begin to string your body’s increasingly frenzied whims into cohesion.  
  
“Honestly, you drilling me into this wall sounds just about right.” There, dirty talk worthy of the Bulwer-Lyttons, and you don’t even care. All that matters is the way it makes his eyes glow brighter than the neon lights up front.  
  
“don’t think that’s quite what they mean by hole-in-the-wall bars, sweetheart.” Before you can chime in about language being a perpetual work in progress, that serrated smile is back at your neck, and you find yourself waiting, _wishing_ for the sting that never comes. “look, not sayin’ the whole back alley bang ain’t classy, but i kinda wanna take ya somewhere else.” His voice deepens and you cry out sharply when his fingers slam inside you with a squelch, _“somewhere i can rip the rest of those clothes off yer pretty body.”  
_  
You shiver. Between the early August chill and the bricks chafing up your back, you’ll admit he’s got a point.  
  
“How far to your place?” you rasp out, choking past the waver in your voice. Between your waxing need and Sans’s pressing issue, you’ll skip the half-hour ride to yours if you can help it.  
  
“six blocks past central.” You groan loudly, and he promptly adds, “’s fine, i know a shortcut.”  
  
The sly up-curl to his smile has you sorely tempted to ask what kind of shifty backstairs business shit he’s got to keep him up to speed, but part of you really doesn’t want to know. Another part is willing to roll with whatever gets his dick in you faster, and it’s the sole thing that keeps you from whining out loud when his fingers leave your pussy, clenching on emptiness as he gently sets you on the ground. A raunchy flash of tongue leaves you precious little time to lament, and watching as it laps your slick right off his fingers is nearly as good as having them in you.  
  
Once your face is what must be a sufficiently saturated shade of scarlet, Sans steps back and extends his other hand, for all in the world like you’re checking off a business meeting and he wasn’t just knuckle-deep inside you. “now c’mere and hold on tight.”  
  
You glance between his grinning face and his hand in a modicum of confusion. You hadn’t noticed it back at the club, but the distal joints of his ring and pinky fingers are missing, and the rest of them look similarly like they’ve been winging edge-play with a bonesaw. That perfunctory observation costs you, pushes you to act without thinking, and you make the mistake of taking his hand before you’re clear on the full brunt of what he’s asking.  
  
The next thing you know is the world seizing on its axis, the safety of sturdy ground torn away from underneath you as the alley lights warp into a muddled mass of color. Tailing off the blurt of icy dread comes the comically cohesive realization that this must be what it’s like to be water in a boiler, tethered on the verge of vaporizing only by the soldered-iron grip around your wrist.  
  
And then, before you know it, it is over: your knees knock painfully against something too smooth to be tarmac, your vision a kaleidoscope of clustered color as you promptly double over and dry-heave. It takes a solid half a minute for the world to phase back to coherence; longer still to put a name to the large hand rubbing soothingly down your back. Your best efforts at conveying sufficient magnitudes of _what the fuck_ come up dry, so you settle for a croaked-out, “Please warn me the next time we’re about to violate the laws of spatial physics.”  
  
The light scoff at your side is only mildly insulting. “what, that? we barely even bent ‘em. won’t have pauli comin’ after us with pitchforks, don’t ya worry.” The hand on your back stills in its stroking, and you chance a tilt of your head to meet Sans’s eyelights. That grin of his leaves precious little room for contrition, but you’ll take the duteously extended hand for reimbursement. “sorry ‘bout the doozy, doll. you humans are even squishier than ya look.”  
  
“Might wanna keep that in mind when you fuck me.” You make an attempt at standing once your insides are done playing prep for zero-gravity, staggering to your feet with Sans’s grip to guide you. The room you’ve landed in is dimly lit and sparsely spacious, most of the floorspace claimed by rumpled clothes and wayward wiring. A purple lava lamp swathes the far side in a gentle glow, shedding light on a scroungy-looking dresser nestled next to a military-issue bedframe. Far be it you to pass judgment on another’s living quarters, but even you have to admit your grudging respect for someone who manages to compact their sheets into a near-perfect sphere while sleeping.  
  
“c’mon, let’s get ya some water.” A sound call, even in the rueful lack of pepto-bismol. You make frivolous use of both Sans and the railing as he ushers you down a set of spiral stairs and into a much roomier kitchen. The folding chair next to the jamb is as good a spot as any, and you make yourself at home while Sans makes a beeline for the fridge, your gaze inexorably drawn to the cupboard holding what looks like a slab of granite on a platter, generously sprinkled with breadcrumbs and adorned with copious amounts of glitter.  
  
“let’s see.” Sans rummages through the fridge with the well-wont flair of a habitual midnight snacker. “got mustard, arsenic, undistilled sulfur dichloride, ice tea—” He only actually pulls a neatly-capped carafe from the door shelf. Whether by courtesy of accumulated thirst, or your recent tumble through the asscrack of the universe, it isn’t long before you’ve leapt and snatched it from his hands. The tart-sweet taste of berry goodness hardly registers until you’ve scarfed down two thirds like it’s cognac at the airport customs. Even then, you only tear away from the near-empty flagon long enough to find Sans looking on with a vaguely impressed expression. “cooled yer head a bit, doll?”  
  
“Shit, sorry. Don’t know where that came from.” You wince at the dregs sloshing about at the bottom of the jug, but the lingering taste of cranberry on your tongue makes it hard to truthfully regret your conduct.  
  
Sans doesn’t seem much torn-up about it, either. “no skin off my ass, kitten. i kill the mood, you end my brother’s ice tea, seems like a square deal to me.”  
  
With outmost care, you set the jug on the counter and wrap your arms around him, wincing lightly at the sting of blooming bruises on your knees. Hardly unforeseen collateral to a one-night stand, but the reason’s a new one for sure. “You didn’t kill the mood. Just my vestibular system.”  
  
That gets you a soft groan, and it only makes your blood run hotter when Sans’s hands snake back around your waist. “hit me with that anatomical talk, babe.”  
  
You do him one better, unable to stave off your smirk as you guide his hand down the front of your still-unbuttoned pants. Feeling the catch in his breath when you kiss him is a treat and a half, and it’s only made better by his shiver at the barest brush of fingers on his bones.  
  
“Well, if you’re still up for it,” you whisper, feather-soft against the ridges of his vertebrae, “I’d love to get acquainted with your _cock_ -cyx.”  
  
Worth it, if only for the way his fingers tighten for a moment’s fraction before he yanks you forward. Your observational skills may be off on a staycation with the entire brain department, but for a fleeting second, you’re damn sure there’s something else that’s crossing wires with the heat that dims his gaze.  
  
“say, why don’t we scram back to my room—” His voice rings low, scalding hot against your skin, and a sole, decisive pulse of his hips is all it takes to melt you to your core. “—and i’ll show ya just how _up_ i’m for it, doll.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reader: *sees scarred skeledude with maimed fingers and shady ways of getting around*  
> reader: well i couldn't possibly not fuck him
> 
> **Extra warnings:** Reader's first proper words to Red are a raunchy innuendo that isn't something you want to open with in real life. Ameliorated here by it being a blunder that went over well with Red, but yeah, don't try that shit at home. 
> 
> Some mild thirsting after Undyne
> 
> possibly a claustrophobic take on crowded spaces. i am very much a discomfort! at the disco kind of person, and it sort of bleeds over to my reader-inserts.
> 
>   
> as always, i love all of you, my starlings. be well and stay well, and thank you for stopping by <3


	2. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smutty fanfic is great for wish fulfillment. living out those kinks, fucking all those monsters — or, y’know, actually coming during sex.

Your second entry to Sans’s room is much more like it should be. You’re hardly past the threshold before you’re all but body-checked against the nearest wall, hands scrabbling at the faux leather of his jacket while Sans goes to town on your neck, seemingly hell-bent on making up for lost time.  
  
“ya got a safeword, kitten?” he rumbles, and you can’t quite tamp down the shudder in your breath.  
  
“Red. Yellow if I need you to chill out.”  
  
The next bite to your shoulder trails off to a snort, and you slant him an accusative glare, line of sight be damned. “yellow, got it, but red’s gonna get weird fer me. howzabout blue? jus’ like them stop signs, just blue instead a’ red, ya know?”  
  
You’re much too horny to call that line of thought to question. “Blue it is.”  
  
Sans grunts his approval, shifting up to pull you into a kiss, but you duck away and ask, “What’s wrong with red, anyway?”  
  
Another huff of a laugh, Sans’s grin twitching upwards as he locks eyes with you. “see, it‘s the semantics. red’s my name in some circles, and a safeword’s s’posed to be something yer _not_ gonna scream during sex.”  
  
You roll your eyes with a groan, even as you drag him back in by the collar. “Is your dick as big as your ego?”  
  
His scoff could almost pass for convincing. “you’re shittin’ me, right? wouldn’t put ya through somethin’ like that. that’d be in-human.”  
  
You grunt angrily into his mouth, but don’t let your indignance stop you from tugging stubbornly at Sans’s jacket until he pulls away enough to let you push it off his shoulders. Must be lugging around a fucking scrapyard in his pockets to merit the clang of it hitting the floor, but it’s bloody hard to think any of it between the eager hands tearing at your clothes, casually shoving your pants off your hips before fisting in the fabric of your shirt.  
  
“get this fucking thing off,” he growls, and you’ve never been faster to obey. Your fingers are unruly, fumbling through the motions; you’ve barely wrangled the shirt over your head before his hands are on you, bony fingers roving over sweat-slicked skin the same as those smoldering eyelights.  
  
“bitchin’ stars, yer so fucking _soft_.” His breath hisses out of him in a throaty sigh. You’re all for him fondling your chest to his soul’s delight, but he can damn well do that while he’s doing _you_.   
  
“You haven’t felt the half of it, bone boy.” Your smirk is syrupy-sweet as you swat his hands away. “And seems like you’re _hard pressed_ to keep it in your pants, so why don’t you lose them, yeah?”  
  
No real need to press your palm against his fly to make your point, but you do so favor clarity. Sans’s shiver rattles through him, eyelights dimming for a moment’s fraction, before lighting up with the same seething heat that fuels his grin.  
  
“gonna lose more ‘n just my pants around ya, doll.” He tilts your face up, beckoning you for a kiss—and you’re more than a tad disappointed in yourself for falling for it, figuratively and literally when a hard shove to your chest sends you tumbling backward onto his bed.  
  
“Asshole!” you screech, but it’s lined with laughter. His smug little jazz hands are cardinal enough an offense to fully warrant the pillow you hurl at his mug, missing by a mile as he lazily sidesteps it with a snide little wave.  
  
The shit you put up with to get laid.  
  
But there’s hardly time for that train of thought to depart before it’s sent careening off the railways as Sans reaches for his shirt and whips it over his head without preamble.  
  
You don’t need a bachelor’s in biology to tell that you’re not staring at your average classroom skeleton, nah, you’ve had plenty clues on that. Doesn’t make it any less riveting to lay eyes on a body that is very much skeleton, no bones about it, and yet so unmistakably _monster_. His bones seem thick and plenty sturdy, his lattice ladder of a ribcage promises plenty of handhold you’re most certain you will need. The superabundance of scars carved into those bones lands the backseat to the overwhelming urge to find out if tonguing any of them will be enough to make him moan.  
  
The mental imagery alone has you smiling. Who would’ve guessed you’d pass the night boning up on anatomy?  
  
“take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Your head whips up at the sound of his voice. The leering glint in his eye all but confirms your suspicions about that being a cumming joke.  
  
“Don’t go giving me ideas, bone boy.” You nestle into his pillows for maximum comfort, matching his grin as you leisurely slide your pants off the rest of the way. Your fingers skim along the curve of your hip as you ease your legs apart, dipping lower, and you can damn near feel the focused heat of Sans’s stare.  
  
“y’know, i’m thinkin’ those socks can stay on.” Before you can so much as glance sideways at your completely unremarkable anklets, Sans’s hand drops to his belt buckle, and you haven’t a word to spare for the impromptu revelation of his sock fetish. Even before his shorts fall to the floor with an unholy clang to match his jacket, your mind is flooded with mockups of what he might be packing, of that gloriously heavy hardness that you’ve felt, but never seen.  
  
And when you _do_ see it…  
  
“That better be medical grade silicone, or I’m hitting up security.”  
  
Sans slants you a dubious look, but you can’t miss the way the corner of his grin twitches upwards. “yer gonna call the chuckers on my dick?” You level your gaze in challenge, and that grin turns lecherous. “then i hope yer ready to get busted for that ass, ‘cause it’s fucking _illegal_.”  
  
There’s surely a snappy retort to be made—your mind flits transiently to there being a different sort of busting that you’re angling for tonight—but your already-modest brain power is stretched thinner still in its throes to process what’s before you. Part of you is smugly unsurprised that the monstrous monster man would have a cock to match; the rest is merrily freaking out over the honest-to-dog _ridges_ along its length, and pondering just how imperative it is that you be fit to walk tomorrow.  
  
“You planning on using that thing, or am I gonna have to get myself off to your voice?” An obvious goad, and so are the fingers that slide against the slick warmth of your folds, skating over heated skin towards your entrance. Two fingers sink inside you with indecorous ease, and you shudder out a whimper, keyed up between your own touch and the unflinching glare of Sans’s roving, crimson gaze.  
  
You yelp when the mattress dips beneath his weight, driving your fingers deeper inside yourself than you’d intended. Hard phalanges smooth over the insides of your thighs; for a hot second you expect him to swat your hands away, but all he does is heft your hips higher, an appreciative growl rumbling through his chest as he watches the frantic workings of your fingers. “now it’s _real_ cute that you think i’d let ya.”  
  
Your smile isn’t as steady as you’d have it, but it’s the best you can do with the sinful things that sonorous drawl does to your body. “Yeah? And whatcha gonna do about it, big boy?”  
  
Those hard and heated hands slide lower, nearly brushing your own, and the smile that splits his skull could be your answer. “now that depends on you. got anythin’ i shouldn’t do? pin ya down, places ya don’t wanna be touched?”  
  
You do your damnedest to turn that over in your mind, but the jarring emptiness in your pussy is throwing all kinds of wrenches in your works. “You’re welcome to do all of me,” you tell him at last. “Anything feel off, I’ll let you know.”  
  
Sans hums in agreement, and finally, _finally_ that hand slips lower, shoving yours aside to take its place. You’re wet for him, so wet and the slide of his fingers is too easy, merciless mimicry of your motions as he rumbles his approval at your piteous, high-pitched wails.  
  
“Do you— is there anything _I_ shouldn’t do?” you choke out while you still have some wits about you.  
  
Sans looks up, and the echo of surprise in his grin would be endearing, if it weren’t followed by a traitorous swipe of thumb over your clit. “all’s fair game by me, sweetheart. maybe don’t go stickin’ yer fist in my socket. that shit’s third-date tier, best case.”  
  
That prompts you to a bout of earnest laughter, one that dwindles to a sigh as his fingers flex inside you. “You freaky, freaky boy.”  
  
“could say that again, doll.” Sans pulls his fingers from your cunt, and you’ve barely drawn breath to complain before your knees are shoved up against your chest, sharp fingertips twisting in the sheets next to your head as you stare up into a tenfold-sharper grin. “an’ let me tell ya things are about ta get _real_ freaky.”  
  
You’d toast to that, had you still had that Swirl in your hand. As is, you have to make do with more than a handful of horny monster, and as his free hand finds your hip, you note with no shortage of glee that his claws are back to play, full tilt, dug into your flesh with bruising force. He’s not even inside you and already you’re a shivering mess beneath him, scuffing at his shoulders and collar in search for purchase—and when your nails scrape hard against the sharp spines of his vertebrae, you _know_ you’re not imagining the telltale twitch against your ass.  
  
“Come _on_ ,” you pant, bucking up against that red-hot hardness. “Fuck me hard, make me _feel_ it, make me take it all.”  
  
His answering growl packs a pinch of titillating peril, but not so much as the lingering sting of razor teeth, and that’s what has you lurching forward—only to be shoved back against the mattress hard enough to knock your air out in a startled wheeze. Sans’s hand is pressing on your chest, unbudging and his grin is all sharp edges, wide and vicious as he watches your eyes widen at the first prod of the plump head at your entrance.  
  
“welcome to the bitchin’ _bone zone_.”  
  
Your screech of outrage is curtailed by a bona fide _scream_ as he rams himself inside you without warning, hilting in one, inexorable shove. Your mind blanks for a feverish second, and all you can think of is how this asshole kept you keyed up for hours so _this_ wouldn’t rip you apart. The squall of sensation is inordinate, leaves you reeling and blindsided, choking on thin air as your body strains to process everything you’re feeling.  
  
“ _fuck,_ you’re—” The raw ruin of his voice has you clenching desperately around him, and the curse that tumbles from his teeth is in a language you’re not sure is of this world. “you been holdin’ out on me, ya shit.”  
  
You swat at his stupid grinning skull and snarl, “Me? I’ve been telling you to fuck me for the past half-hour!”  
  
A pithy jerk of his hips has you squeaking, and if that grin packs too much relish for your liking, you can hardly blame him. “and i intend ta. trust me, dolly, you ain’t leavin’ here while ya still can walk.”  
  
His words ripple through you in tandem with his magic, coaxing out a wordless whimper when he finally starts moving. Whatever you’d thought of his cock couldn’t hold a candle to how it feels inside you, all hot and humming magic, so thick it spreads you to your limit. There’s an inimitable _thrum_ to it, a deeply-dormant resonance that sparks to life with each pass against your tender walls, and the firm roughness of those ridges is enough to leave you tingling to your fingertips.  
  
“shit, lookit how fuckin’ tight ya are,” he sighs, and you’d bet hard gold on your face glowing brighter than his cock. “squeezed around me like a fuckin’ vice.”  
  
“You’re just fucking _huge_ ,” you choke out, voice teetering on the verge of a whimper. The luxury of being filled so wholly doesn’t lend itself to eloquence, especially not when your body takes his words for a cue to prove his point.  
  
Sans ousts a breathless chuckle. “eh, ’s all in the eye of the ‘d’-holder. but cheers for the ego boost, sweetheart.”  
  
You swat tiredly at his shoulder. “As if that could get any bigger.”  
  
The glint in Sans’s side-eye speaks of challenge—but for once, that zeal amounts to something more than chucklefuckery. The needle-tipped claws trailing up your sides aren’t gentle, the thumb that flicks your nipple downright rude, but the strangled grunt and desperate twitch of hips you earn by fondling his vertebrae impels you to call it a draw.  
  
“You seem all kinds of pent up, bone boy,” you tease, and it’s as much a goad as it is a pointer to the fact he’s sweating bullets, and yup, that one’s going up on the revision board right next to the magic dick.   
  
“fuck, can ya blame me? ’m in a really _tight_ spot here...” He changes up his angle, and you can’t in good faith say it is the pun that has you groaning.  
  
“Do you always pun during sex?”  
  
“every fuckin’ time.” You can only grit your teeth in outrage, glaring when his chesire grin sharpens. “why, huh? seems t’ me yer takin’ it pretty _hard_.”  
  
You know exactly what’s coming but the sudden snap of Sans’s hips still has you yelping, your breath punched out of you when his cock nudges something deep inside you just right. From the sly twist to his grin, you can tell he noticed.  
  
“Could be taking it a lot harder,” you sneer, “if you stopped pussyfooting. You say I won’t be walking away, but I could take a hike right now and be back on my feet tomo—”  
  
The headboard clangs against the wall with a jarring rattle, and your back arches up in a scream. Your hands tighten instinctively on Sans’s collar, only to be slammed down on the mattress next to your head, and you’ve barely registered the iron grip that pins you before another thrust sends you reeling, clenching fitfully around the cock that fills you to the point of pain.  
  
“you want it hard? i’ll give ya hard.” His hips buck again, selling in his point, and your eyes scrunch up in a sob. “just remember ya _asked_ for it, kitten.”  
  
You’re dazed, drunk stupid on his voice and this newfound viciousness—even more so when he pulls out of you, only to flip you over on your hands and knees. You get a moment’s fraction to cry out at the piercing pain of claws that dig into your ass before you’re _keening_ as he rams his cock back inside you, not even a pretense of tenderness to his strokes as his pace turns fucking _brutal_.  
  
“fuckin’ humans, always thinkin’ they have it all down pat.” A sharp yank on your hair has you bowing in his grip; the hard, hot breaths against your nape sear across your skin like wildfire. The rumpled sheet slips away under your grasp, and there’s nothing you can do but arch your back and _take_ it, hands scrambling fitfully for the headboard every time an expressly savage thrust slides you forward on the mattress. Pointless; Sans just drags you back up on your knees, and his voice in your ear is all sweet danger, laced with heinous promise.  
  
“feel this?” His hand drops to your stomach, angling you into his thrusts, and you’re not sure the sound that leaves your lips can be described as human. “gon’ be feelin’ it every time you sit down for a _week_. not gon’ be able to take a damn step without rememberin’ what ya felt like takin’ my cock—”  
  
You’re shaking, delirious, floundering for words even as you know trying is a lost cause. Your body is keyed up to eleven, tethered in the tempest of sensations and the white-hot, violent pulses of your pleasure, and a mettlesome mouthful of filth is all it takes to send you careening into climax. Your elbows buckle as your body spasms around him with a rueful wail, coming harder than you thought possible at the hands of someone other than yourself. Behind you, Sans chuffs out what sounds like another rousing swear. It’s hard to tell over the sound of your own voice, and dimly, you find yourself hoping against hope that you didn’t scream his name.  
  
The firmed grip on your ass has you whimpering weakly, plenty distracted by the monstrous cock still inside you that you miss all but the tail of what Sans is saying to you.  
  
“—would be a screamer. fuck the sweepstakes, got my jackpot right here…”  
  
You have no zest to argue, too shaky from your aftershocks to appreciate the softness in his motions when Sans pulls out and rolls you onto your back. His massive frame is looming and you spread your legs without a second thought, only to squint up in half query, half confusion when he’s clearly in no rush to go for seconds. “maintenance check. still on board, sweetheart?”  
  
You huff a breathless laugh. “All airworthy, captain. I’ll ride your route to the horizon, if that’s what you’re asking.” You reach up to cup his smug and blush-blotched, not in the least endearing face before adding, warily, “Unless you’re feeling done..?”  
  
His leering smirk is dark, matched by a flash in those dimly glowing eyelights as he slips back inside your cunt, and this time he is gentler, something your still-twitching walls couldn’t be more grateful for. “i don’t know, doll. does this feel like i’m done?”  
  
You sling your legs around him, grinning as you pull him closer. “Survey says I’ve gotta do you some more.”  
  
His sockets flutter shut at your words, and the press of him inside you is almost as good as the shudder passing through his bones. “now that’s what i like ta hear.”  
  
The pace he sets is leaning towards lazy, gentle enough that you should’ve known it wouldn’t last. It isn’t long before he’s worked you back up to writhing beneath him, gasping, chasing his thrusts and the heavy press of his body on yours. Between the crude cacophony of skin-on-bone and both your harsh and heated breathing, you’re hardly thinking when you reach down and tweak your nipple, let alone prepared for the gratified growl that rattles through Sans’s ribcage like an engine at full throttle.  
  
“fuck, that’s it... touch yerself, make yerself feel good—”  
  
The barely-banked command in his tone has you redoubling your efforts, your breaths hitching higher and higher in pair with your pleasure until it’s teetering on the threshold of too much. A rough swipe of your own thumb has you strangling down a shriek and your free hand clamps over your mouth on its own whim, only to be immediately slapped away with a growl, and the fact that you didn’t come right there and then is probably some twisted blessing in disguise.  
  
“oh no, none a’ that shit. i fuck ya, i’m gonna hear every fuckin’ whine, capiche?” Your cheeks burn, despite your overfull awareness that now’s a tad too late for inhibitions. You’re all blissed out, so hot all over, and the deep throb of him inside you is echoed by your own frenzied heartbeat. There’s no room left for whoever else might hear your sobbing when your free hand finds your clit, nothing but the dizzying decadence of Sans’s snarled obscenities and it’s still there when you come around him in a spasming ripple, the easy trickle of his praise tangling with your tumbling cries.  
  
You’re still shaking, trembling with the steamroll force of your own pleasure, when the world totters for a topsy-turvy—and suddenly you’re sitting spraddled in his lap, whimpering helplessly into his mouth while he ruts into you from below, harsh breaths fanning out across your lips in searing swaths. Your mind is swimming in the dregs of euphoria and it takes a minute to note the way he’s angling his hips, the glaring crimson in his eyelights tempered as his thrusts turn softer, _searching_.  
  
A scream wrenches from your throat when he finds what he is looking for.  
  
“oh there we go.” He doesn’t even try to dial down the triumph in his voice.  
  
Not that you’re in any state to take exception: latching onto his sweat-slicked forearms and muffling your moans in his chest is about the most you can manage when he repeats the motion, and when that knife-like grin drops to nuzzle at your shoulder, the barest nick of teeth against your skin is enough to throw you under. Your back bows as your third orgasm tears through you in a ruinous riptide, your whole body quaking in his grip, clenched around his cock like it’s your lifeline and the last thing keeping you whole. Beneath you, Sans lets out a strangled groan, and that minute concession, the daybreak of desperation in his voice, breathes a second wind of strength into your loose-limbed, trembling body.  
  
Your heart is pounding in your head, echoed by the sweet, straggler throbs inside your pussy as you push at Sans’s chest. You’re fully geared for another of his jibes, an earful of bitchy blather to go with the hands that settle on your hips, but it seems he’s just full of surprises, touch and expression startlingly soft as you reverse your positions, him laid out on his back while you hover above him. The latter doesn’t stay that way for long, circling back into a sneer of greedy _want_ as you begin to slowly ride him, one hand braced against his chest for balance while the other maps out all the bones you didn’t get to scope before.  
  
“don’t go tryin’ this at the museum,” Sans pants, voice hoarse and gravelly, and still the paragon of steadiness against your warbling whines.  
  
Your hand stops in its clueless fondling. “Uh, sorry—”  
  
“no!” Sans growls out in exasperation. His fingers snag your wrist before you can pull away, and his eyelights are simmering coals in the deep voids of his sockets, aglow with leaking heat. His hand guides yours to a rib and wraps around it, pushing down to firm your grip, and the sound that tumbles from his parted teeth is sweet, but not sweeter than the way his entire body trembles.  
  
“stroke it,” he rasps, easing your fingers to glide along the length, “faster— _oh,_ that’s fuckin’ good…”  
  
His minute twitches feel like victory, even though he essentially handed you a freebie. You spare no glee from your smirk as you roll your hips in a teasing circle, and Sans swears under his breath, retaliates with a vicious snap that has you choking on a moan.  
  
“don’t get fuckin’ cocky.”  
  
You grin broadly and offer up a mimicry of his sleazy wink. “Wouldn’t dream of it, bone daddy.”  
  
It’s well worth the provisional look of betrayal on his face, gateway to whatever real reaction percolates inside his skull. You’re not about to throw aside the rarity of his silence, not when it’s begging to be spent continuing your survey up his chest; keeping up the easy, fluttering strokes until you reach his collar, and by the time your fingers brush the spiny spikes along his vertebrae, his thoughts are clearly back just where you want them. The heavy, hissing breaths you earn by upping your pace are accompanied by a series of twitches inside you, and you’re set enough on seeing him fall apart that you’re willing to push past the soreness in your body.  
  
Reluctantly giving up your handhold on his bones, you instead brace against the headboard, groaning as the leverage makes each thrust reach that much deeper. Sans’s raw intensity tempered by your control lands the depth of feeling just where you can handle, and you take it in a stride; bow your back and steel your grip as you ride him, biting your cheek and clearing your mind of all but your bounding, pulsing squalls of pleasure.  
  
Until a sharp pain in your nipple lassoes you back to awareness and reminds you that the person you’re fucking is an absolute and incorrigible bastard. A truth he promptly cements by grinning through the teeth still closed around the sensitive bud, and there isn’t a gag in the world that’d keep you quiet through the deliberate drag and quick flick of tongue that follows.  
  
Your body tightens of its own accord, and Sans lets out a moan of his own, albeit tainted by that infuriating smile. “oh, i _felt_ that.”  
  
Your best shot at a sour glare holds for the record time of two seconds. “Gonna be feeling plenty more than that, bone boy.”  
  
His skull tips to the side, a subtle little mockery. “that so?”  
  
“Yup,” you chirp, before forfeiting the headboard in favor of gripping his shoulders. His breathing stutters when your fingers curl into the bone, and you ride the momentum to press your foreheads together. “And this time, you’ll be coming with me.”  
  
A borderline insulting bark of laughter, and you pull away, expecting in full the encore of the mocking leer you should probably start tallying by now. Less expected is the glint of _something_ in his socket, intent that wasn’t there before, mirrored in the hardened edges of his smile.  
  
A smile that is as lazy as it’s foreboding, whittling down the last of your spunk before he rolls the both of you around. The sudden change in angle has you moaning softly, and something in your voice is gasoline to that piercing, burning gaze.  
  
“we’ll see if you can keep that promise, doll,” he growls, and you can’t fight back a smile. The chips are down, and it’s his own damn fault if he expects you to lie there and take it. Magic boy right here should’ve known a dick is a poor bet when it comes down to not coming, and now that you’ve had a taste of his game, you’ve every mind to play for keeps.

* * *

Three orgasms and not fifteen minutes later, and you’re eating your words by the bucket, laid out limp and loose-limbed underneath him while the remanence of your latest climax rages through your body. The scene before you is half-darkness blotched with stains of glowing red, refusing to refocus through the tears that veil your vision. Your voice fares little better, the rawness in your throat compounded by the faintest taste of iron—whether it be from screaming or from your bleeding lip you have no clue, just as you can’t begin to guess if the latter is your own or Sans’s doing.  
  
None of it has any bearing on the desperate, rasping sounds punched out of you with every thrust, the inexorable pull of those ungodly ridges. It’s worth every last dreg of your flagging strength to wipe away your tears with shaking hands, to soldier through the haze of near-numb, pain-twined pleasure to blink up at where Sans is toiling doggedly away, teeth clenched with effort that keeps mounting by the minute, already piled high enough to coax out moans and desperate hisses of his own on the heels of every breath. But not so high that he can’t spare a chortle for you when he sees you staring, those fuzzed-out lights regaining their sharpness as he sing-songs, sugary-sweet, “ready to haul flag yet, kitten?”  
  
You’ve no heat left for a suitable glare—not that you’d risk one for fear of another forced orgasm. The twitch to Sans’s smile reminds you that silence is an answer, even as those eyelights leave your face in favor of gazing almost lovingly at where he’s spreading you wide open, the vibrant red of that unworldly cock a stark contrast to your flesh. The sight alone is enough to make you whimper, and the pulsing pain along the trail of bites that mar your shoulder is clear-cut reminder of just how much Sans likes that sound.  
  
“How on earth are you still going?” you rasp out in disbelief. Forget about walking, you’re not sure you could crawl to the curb for an Uber.  
  
“whacking one out before i head downtown, that’s how.” Winded as he is, you don’t think you’d imagined the ghost of a grump in his voice. “like ta wait ‘til second fuck before breaking out my minute man, thanks.”  
  
You pointedly ignore the implicit feasibility of a second fuckdate. “Got plenty more going for you than just your dick.”  
  
You may not have enough on him yet for a formal verdict, but the subtle twitch in his socket clues you in on a possible case of complimentose-intolerant, even before the diversion maneuver. There’s hardly any time to voice your displeasure at him pulling out before you’re once more being shoved face-first into the sheets, and the fact that you’re not yet worn out to the point of quits is, feels like, has to be some fairy godmother-tier magic.  
  
“clearly not enough if you’re still talkin’,” growled next to your ear—and once again the only magic shared between you is that monster of a cock; hard, deep thrusts that steal your voice and leave your body quaking. Sans’s weight pressed up against your back is an unrelenting anchor, pinning you bodily to the bed, and you don’t know if it is that or the abrupt change in angle that lights you up like a lithium spark. Swaying on the cusp, it is less thought than it is instinct to fumble for his hand, pawing clumsily at his fingers until they move to cover yours, claws gouging into linens as he rams into you without remorse.  
  
“Hurt me,” you gasp, uncaring if it’s teeth or claws. All you know is that you need it to be him.  
  
Sans’s answering groan is a breathless wreck, but his motions pass muster: sharp teeth clamp down on your shoulder hard enough to have you howling out in pain, only to choke on your own scream when another ruthless shove sends you lurching in his grasp. Dimly, deliriously, you ache for the sharp sting of his fingers—but not so much that you expect to feel them on your clit, slipping over it in sloppy circles. He tries to work you over like before but the angle is all wrong and you swat at his hand with a snarl, your own picking up in its stead and _oh_ , that is better, _so_ much better, so close to what you _need_ —  
  
“ _cum,_ ” he gasps against you, a desperate, hoarse command, and that’s your final cue before the tension in you snaps like a tacky knock-off glowstick. After all he’s done to you, your body spares no strength to scream—all that leaves you is sob-fringed, breathless wheezes as you shake through your umpteenth orgasm. You’re still coming when Sans pulls out of you with a gratified groan, and the first hot splash across your back has you cussing into the pillow, squirming uselessly against the hand holding you down while he chokes out his own curses above you.  
  
You’re afloat on happy hormones, mind swimming with pure unalloyed bliss—and as Sans finally sags against you, panting hard, you know beyond a shred of a doubt that there’s nowhere in the world you’d rather be. Alas, the base necessity of breathing is quick to crash your afterparty, and it takes more squirming and a couple choice words to extricate yourself from underneath two hundred pounds of well-fucked monster before you end up flattened to the bed like some low-carbon human substitute for tarmac. Fuggy post-sex air has never felt better than it does in your lungs and you suck it in by greedy mouthfuls, rolling onto your back to stare your joy at the unseeing ceiling. At your side, Sans drops like a string-cut puppet, if without the added effect of ragdoll physics.  
  
“Welp, time to fake a cold for a week,” you announce in a stridulous rasp, and yeah, that right there makes for another reason.  
  
Next to you, Sans rattles out a bone-deep sigh. One socket slits just barely open, revealing the fuzzy speck of half an eyelight. “what th’ fuck for?”  
  
Any satisfaction you might’ve tapped from the sated slurry of his voice comes to a rankled halt. You blink at him incredulously, then gesture wildly to the general area of your neck and chest. That tired grin tips higher, and your lukewarm outrage is only incensed when he reaches out to swipe a none-too-careful thumb over your collarbone. “hate ta break it to ya, but a scarf ain’t gonna help here. might wanna look into somethin’ like a buster cone.”  
  
The urge to drop-kick him out of bed is strong, but the implacable exhaustion in your limbs is stronger. Instead, you only watch impassively as Sans rolls onto his back and stretches, leaving the sheets at his side temptingly bare. A vacancy like that can’t damn well go ignored, and if part of him tenses when you roll in to curl against him, it thaws off soon enough to let it slide.  
  
“Can I ask you something?” you mumble after a moment’s quietude.  
  
Sans doesn’t deign opening his sockets. “just did.”  
  
“Fuck you,” you tell him amiably, and add in before the retort you see kindling in his eyelights can make it out his mouth, “Do you have any more of that… tea?”  
  
Diversion successful; your prize is an arm around your shoulder and a leery little grin. “what, got yourself parched makin’ all those wet spots?”  
  
“Sans, I _will_ personally cross-stitch an eggplant in your sacrum.”  
  
“not enough holes and besides, quit threatening me with a good time.” But he hauls himself up on an elbow and moves to sit up. “sure, we’ve got a second stash in the mini. anythin’ else ya want?”  
  
Your fingers trail absently over the fresh indents in your shoulder and you wince. Something like an ice pack would sit real right with you, _something’s_ gotta now that _you_ most definitely won’t. “Unless you’ve got some monster miracle way to make me look more ‘gently mauled’ and less ‘cutting in line for a rabies vaccine’, that’ll be all.”  
  
That earns you a bark of delightfully breathless laughter, a borderline unfair thing coupled with the sight of his bare bones but fuck it, you’re officially a made monsterfucker now, might as well go the whole hog. “my ‘monster miracle’ goes one way, and you’ve already hitched that ride.” His fingers brush over your bruised skin, again but infinitely gentler, and it’s so brief you might well have imagined it, but you think you see his features soften. “might have a little somethin’ for this, too. sit tight, dolly.”  
  
He slithers out of your grip and to his feet before you can think to lament the loss of your bony stand-in for a body pillow. But not so fast that you can’t get a hold of his shoulder and deliver a wimpy, but vindictive flick to his forehead. Your moral code may have a clause or two on pettiness, but the look of bewildered affront on Sans’s face so very nearly makes it worth it. “ow, what the hell’s that for?!”  
  
“That’s for being a shit. And for not coming inside me.”  
  
The haste with which all that outrage condenses into a shit-eating grin is nigh-on impressive. “well, ya never said i could.”  
  
Fair, you suppose, but— “Didn’t say you couldn’t, either. What are you, a vampire?” The look on Sans’s face says all he’s missing in the moment is a pot of popcorn, and that’s enough to make you subside.  
  
“I’ll send you a calendar invitation next time,” you promise. The possible implications of your phrasing don’t occur to you until it’s all out in the open. Once it is, the cold blurt of embarrassment tangles with the sudden swell of heat at the way his eyelights darken.  
  
“nah, i’ve a better idea.” He leans in, one knee braced on the mattress by your head, and you have to swallow against a dryness in your throat that has nothing to do with being parched. “how’s about we go kill some cranberry tea, fetch ya some fluid replacement or whatever keeps you lot from croaking after sex.”  
  
You glare, but it’s a moot point. Like your aching, well-fucked body isn’t perking right back up for an encore.  
  
“and then we can get back up here, and i make up for my transgression. whatcha say?” His voice drops low, loaded with heinous intent. You’re certain you’re lacking the mental acuity to articulate the magnitude of your ‘yes’.  
  
Rather than trying, you nod towards the cluttered workspace behind him. “How sturdy is that desk?”  
  
Sans’s grin grows by another country mile as he offers a one-shouldered shrug. “fuck if i know. you offerin’ a maintenance check?”  
  
That and then some. You serve up a coy smile of your own as you sag back into the ruins of the bed. “I’m offering a rematch.” At his quizzical look, you elaborate, “You won this round thanks to your pre-club self-help sesh. This time, you’re going down.”  
  
A lie as blatant as they come, no two ways about that. Never mind that Sans sees right through it, you know you’ve lost this one before it’s even started; before those razor teeth part in a baleful grin and the muted mutter of, “you’re on.” The fiendish glow in those eyelights promises a crushing defeat, but that’s just fine and dandy.  
  
  
The night is still young, and losing has never felt better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Extra warnings:** The exact words "Bone Daddy" are uttered by reader at one point as part of their bullshit, but no serious, proper daddy kink here. Not this time.
> 
> i can’t believe i actually finished this. and i only near-divorced my own writing what, three times in the process? 
> 
> as always, i'm grateful for every single starling that gave this piece a chance. you all make me so happy it's ridiculous, i absolutely liVE for your comments and sometimes they're the thing that turns a shitty day around. i can only hope to give back a fraction of that through my works. 
> 
> be safe and stay safe! <3


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